


Bus Stop

by Minka



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky is such a flirt, Dorks in Love, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve is helplessly in love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings, chef bucky, mysterious Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: Every morning he'd see him waiting at the stop…-----Written for the Bucky Barnes Bingo fluffathon week.My personal challenge; make it into a complete spur-of-the-moment, on-the-fly chapter fic with a plot, all while relying on nothing but the daily prompts to shape the course and development of the characters.  Oftentimes, I think I’m crazy and that I make life really hard for myself.  :)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Riley/Sam Wilson
Comments: 80
Kudos: 176
Collections: BBB Special Events





	1. R - Red, Roses, Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my not-so-slave-driving slave driver. You know who you are.

Steve loved the rain. There was something about it; something healing. _Soothing_. The water came and washed away the sins of the city, scrubbing the streets clean and leaving behind a reflective sheen. Buildings sparkled, sidewalks gleamed, and the cities inhabitants met their mirror matches as they rushed past the large puddles that overtook the gutters. 

The artist in Steve saw the romantic side. Sure, it was wet and cold and made his morning commute hellish, but it was also impossible to miss the subtle beauty. He loved the way that lights stayed on longer, and how they glistened and contorted on the wet road. He loved the way trench coats swished in the wind and the way people wore scarves around their chins and over their mouths like mufflers. 

It reminded him of bygone days written about in literary classics. Romance on the Scottish moors, or of Paris at night and impeccable style on the street of _Diamonds and_ Rubies. Or Prague and romance beneath the arches of Charles Bridge and St. Petersburg under the twinkle of festive lights. Even out in the cold, it made Steve think of lazy days in, filled with books and movies and streaks of paint against a white canvas. Film Noir and crystal glasses of whiskey and comfort food enjoyed while wrapped in a blanket as rain fell on a tin roof. 

With those things in mind, Steve didn't even object to the trudge to the bus stop. It became a game to him. How many puddles he could count and how many frowns he could greet with a cheery smile as he passed. 

The usual suspects were all there when he arrived. The woman in the high heels with the phone in her hand and her hair in a tight ponytail at the crown of her head. The man with his thousand-dollar suit, a permanent grimace on his face; the student with the weight of his textbooks straining the straps of his backpack. Steve was just waiting for the day the stitching gave way. 

The man with the bun was there too, and he reminded Steve of a lot of other things. Fog over the Golden Gate Bridge, and the sun shining on the first snow of the season. Spring flowers blooming colour into the grey frost of winter and sunsets over a mountain lake. Of warmth and firelight and the scent of a pine forest after a storm. 

He looked warm, his usual leather jacket matched with a bright-red scarf and black mittens. There was a paper bag in his hand, the motif of a red rose stamped on the front, and he was doing his best to protect it from the rain while scowling at the sky. The small shelter was already filled with the businessmen and women, so he was tucked into the side, bearing his back to the storm and protecting his parcel as if his life depended on it. 

His presence had been a new one at the bus stop. Steve had first seen him a week ago, and Steve knew he would have noticed him if he'd ever been there before. Usually, the man stood to the side, sucking back a cigarette like his life depended on it before darting onto the bus and smashing his pass against the reader. He was all narrowed eyes and dark hair and powerful shoulders – yeah, Steve knew that the was a new commuter. 

Now maybe Steve was reading too much into the weather, or into the bag in the man's hand and the look on his face, but he felt that this was the time. _The_ time. It was fate and karma and an open invitation to make introductions. He'd thought about it before, of course, but he'd never had the opening. Somehow, he didn't think that ' _Hey, gorgeous, those things can kill you_ ' was a good pick up line. 

Today, though, Steve had a valid chance for introductions. 

He tried not to look too eager as he side-stepped the formable puddle at the back of the station shelter and rounded it from the opposite direction that he'd come. It let him walk past the man's line of vision and gave Steve the chance to slide in behind him. 

"Please," Steve offered with a grin as the man turned to give him the stink-eye at the lack of personable space. He lifted the umbrella up higher and held it out, offering the shelter to the stranger. 

When the man smiled, even the rain seemed to hide in awe. He was like sunshine and roses, bright and brilliant and hopelessly beautiful. His eyes were blue – Steve had noticed that before – but in the grey light, they sparkled like sapphires, or raindrops gathering on a windowsill, or that peak and promise of clear sky after a storm. 

"Thank you," the man said while ducking under the brim. It wasn't the largest of umbrellas, and neither he nor Steve was the smallest of men, but they made it work. They slotted together in the little bubble of dryness, warm jackets and cherry-red scarves brushing together intimately. The material had a mind of its own in the wind; the man's scarf danced and flicked before settling on the curve of Steve's arm. It rested there like it had found its home, and Steve couldn't help but smile as he shuffled in closer, encouraging it not to leave. 

"You want it?" The man asked, snapping Steve out of his reverie, and Steve found the bag being shoved quite abruptly in his face. It almost hit him in the nose, and for a moment, all he could see was the rose motif. 

"Ahhh," he reasoned, his eyes flicking from the semi-soaked parcel and back down to those river-blue eyes. 

"It’s from my friends’ bakery,” the man said with a slight roll of his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s good. I’m not trying to poison the good umbrella-wielding Samaritan here, but seriously. If they give me one more god damn piece of fucking cake, I’m probably gonna kill a bitch, so you should take it!” He grinned in a way that made Steve question if this man had, in fact, killed a bitch before. “Consider it karmic payment.” 

Well. He certainly had a way with words. 

“I, um,” Steve stuttered. He wasn’t too sure what had him so tongue-tied; the man being so close, or the utter absurdity of his offer. 

“Are you really going to make me hold this fucking thing in your face all morning?” the man asked with a laugh. It sounded less murdery and more joyful, and something about that tone prompted Steve to reach forward and take the offered bag. 

“Thank you,” Steve said, grinning and holding in close to protect it from the rain. Even if it turned out to be some horrible cake – or not cake at all, and instead some nasty prank – he’d still consider it a treasure. 

“No sweat,” the man said as the bus pulled up. The people around them rushed to the door, climbing on, and Steve felt the warmth of that scarf tail slip from his shoulder. 

“This is me,” the man said. “Thanks for the, ah, shelter and all that,” he finished articulately before making his own dash through the rain and into the waiting bus. 

It took Steve a moment to realise that the bus – the bus he was supposed to catch – was pulling away and that he hadn’t in fact gotten on it.

“Fuck!” he cursed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I can’t promise that I’ll pump something out for every day of the fluffathon, but if I do get the time (and I'm still hating on my Cold War WIP), I’ll try to make all the prompts roll into this cute little story and build it up. 
> 
> Chapter theme song: Bus stop - [The Hollies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCFvXAbSXUQ)
> 
> Comments and kudos... might sober me up, tbh. But I love them all the same!


	2. O - Ordering In, Orchid, Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. What am I doing?

Weddings were interesting things. Steve had been to a few in his time now, right from that time he’d been the ring bearer at his Uncle Joe’s recommitment ceremony where his mother pointedly hadn’t let him dress up like a Hobbit, all the way up to the drunken party fests when handfuls of his friends got married too young and ended up divorcing three years later. 

Now, with his circle of friends in their wiser, more grounded thirties and forties, weddings tended to be smaller, more intimate events. It was about making moments and memories and commitments, not about dealing with a bill after two drunk guests tried to fuck on the bathroom sink and broke it. 

Sam and Riley’s wedding was an exact representation of them. Outdoor ceremony but indoor reception. Exposed brick and those fake Edison light bulbs that hipster bros and Instagrammers seemed to love, paired with one of those photo booths that weren’t really a booth at all, and relied more on comical moustaches on sticks than actual photography. It was as classy as it was cheesy, Steve thought while eating a camembert and cranberry tart and eyeing the wall of flowers wrapped in fairy lights. 

“You know,” a voice said by his shoulder. “Orchids are a multipurpose flower.” 

Steve was sure he knew that voice, and even before he turned, he was envisioning leather jackets and a man bun, and eyes as seemingly endless as the Pacific Ocean. Red scarves and delicious cakes and the warmth of standing so close on a rainy day. 

“They’re meant to be a sign of everlasting love, which is all nice and shit, but it means that they get stuffed into both weddings and funerals.” The man from the bus stop shrugged slightly as he flashed Steve a lopsided grin. “So, I guess if someone chokes on the canapes, we can just flip the whole thing, throw an eulogy in after the best man speech and get all bases covered.” 

Steve almost choked on his champagne, his eyes going wide at the decidedly dark sense of humour. As far as introductions went, it was a somewhere between manic and witty, and clearly much more creative than Steve’s single worded ‘ _Please’_ when he’d offered the man shelter under his umbrella. 

“So how do you know Sam and Riley?” Steve asked. He couldn’t get over how lucky he was. It was one thing to be lusting after an unattainable stranger while searching for a way to strike up a conversation but finding out that they had friends in common pushed Steve’s mind toward ideals of fate and karma and _meant to be_.

“Not very well. I’m here with Matt,” the man explained. 

Steve felt his heart shatter. He gulped down the rest of his champagne and braced for the worst. “Matt?” he asked. 

“Yeah, you now. Matt. Matty. Loves pizza hates milk. _Matt_.” Steve must have still looked confused as the man continued to elaborate. “Too scared to break up with his crazy girlfriend, so he wrangled his gay-BBF into, and I quote, ‘pretending to see each other in a new light’, Matt.” 

“Matt sounds quite colourful,” Steve laughed. He didn’t want to jump the gun, and he didn’t want to play hard and loose with the facts, but if Bus Stop Man was here with Matt, that meant that Matt was straight and Bus Stop was gay and that they weren’t actually dating. 

It was confusing and convoluted, but it gave Steve hope. It sat warm and heavy in his stomach, heating up his heart and making his cheeks flush just a little as he looked the man over. Bus Stop Man looked good. He always looked good, but his suit and tie fit him just as snugly as his leather jacket and gloves had. His hair was a lot less windswept and far more Brooklyn coffee-and-bookshop-geek than eighteenth-century Red-Coat. 

“You’re really not in this group of friends, are you?” Man Bun laughed, and Steve felt himself blush again, even as his companion lifted his glass in a toast to someone over Steve’s left shoulder. Steve fought the urge to turn around and see who his dream man was acknowledging and instead spent more time focused on him. 

“I’m only really close to Sam,” Steve admitted. “Riley is great, but I don’t really know his circle.” Bus Stop Man nodded sagely and reached out to snag another two glasses of champagne. Steve tried to ignore the thrill he felt when their fingers brushed together as Man Bun handed him the glass. 

The MC was announcing dinner, and Steve couldn’t help but wish that he hadn’t heard it. Dinner meant going to his table and sitting next to Sam’s cousins’ girlfriend who tended to overdraw her lips and flutter fake eyelashes at everyone she met.

Dinner meant leaving Bus Stop Man, and Steve wasn’t so sure he could physically do that. He felt like they were being pushed together, drawn to each other, and his mind skipped to Japanese romances and red strings of fate tied around their little fingers. 

People moved around them, shuffling into the doors and dumping glasses in inconvenient places as they went. The staff would hate that, and Steve felt a prang of sympathy for the poor souls who had to put up with these sorts of events day in, day out. 

“We should… probably…” No matter how hard he tried, Steve couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. _We should go_ just weren’t words that he wanted to say to those startling eyes and that roguish smile. 

“Hey,” the man said, and Steve felt his heart skip a beat when the man’s hand closed around his forearm. Steve looked down, smiling slightly as he naturally came to a stop, before shooting his companion an inquisitive glance. 

“You wanna…” he stalled, and Steve found himself insanely attracted to the small frown lines that wrinkled his brow. “Do you wanna get Thai?”

Of all the things Steve was expecting, that was not one of them. 

The answer came easily. “Yeah,” Steve nodded, his mind already lost in a sparkling sea of date prospects and romantic gestures. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Fantastic!” the man exclaimed. That hand tightened around Steve’s arm, and before he really understood what was going on, Steve found himself being tugged in the opposite direction to the door.

“Wait. What? Now?”

“No. Next fucking year,” Man Bun scoffed, and for a moment his sarcasm was so dry that Steve almost believed him. It only heightened his confusion. “Of course, now!” he added. “I’m fucking starving!” 

“They’re about to serve dinner.”

“Come on,” Man Bun laughed. “You know it’s beef or chicken and the kitchen made it like, two days ago and just zapped it in their fancy big ovens to make it seem fresh. Just ‘cause the plate is hot doesn’t mean the food is fresh!” 

He still had hold of Steve’s arm, but he was walking backwards now, a devious twinkle in his eye as he tempted Steve to follow. 

“It’ll be dry with the sauce fucking baked onto the plate,” he kept reasoning, the words falling in between the small, slow steps he took backwards. “And the beans will be limp,” he added with this little smirk that Steve was positively sure was devilish. Bus Stop Man was the little devil on his shoulder, tempting him towards sin and Steve? Well, he was powerless to resist. 

“And the potato will be that weird layered gratin stuff that is gluggy and undercooked all at the same time.” The man was nodding, and Steve couldn’t help but nod along with him. Yes, the food would be horrible. It always was. 

“We could be having noodles while everyone else suffers through that shit.” The way the man said _we_ had Steve's heart and stomach switching places and knotting up and going in crazy circles inside his body. It was a magnificent term; one made for them and them alone, and Steve wanted to add things like ‘…could watch the stars’, and ‘…could wake up next to each other’ after it. 

Completely enraptured, Steve followed his mystery man out into the carpark and watched the way his fingers danced across the screen of his phone as he pushed in a familiar number. Man Bun played middleman, relaying orders and requests from Steve while pacing around the small garden near the entrance to the venue. 

Steve marvelled at the way the lights played across his features; the way the moonlight made the ends of his hair glow and the white of his shirt seem ethereal. He was one of the most beautiful things that Steve had ever seen, and his fingers itched with the want to touch and feel and paint and capture. Steve wanted to feel those cheekbones against his fingers; have that sensation of the light stubble that dusted the man’s jaw rub against his palm. He wanted to push his hands into the man’s hair and dishevel that bun. Hold onto the strands roughly and then soothe any pain with gentle touches and delicate caresses. 

The first part of their conversation was a sea of calculated words and internal panic. Steve didn’t really take anything in, his concentration wrapped up in making sure he didn’t say something stupid like _I want to take you home_ or _let me hold your hand_. 

A car pulled into the driveway, and Man Bun’s phone lit up, the ringtone a rock tune accentuated with a gravelly female voice singing about how she ‘liked it heavy.’ He dashed off to get the food, and they found a spot on the edge of the garden wall to dig in. 

It was delicious and sweet and tangy and rich and everything that the stuffy reception meal wouldn’t have been. 

They talked about anything and everything between bites, and Steve found it endlessly endearing how Man Bun had the manners to cover his mouth when he spoke even if he did still have his mouth full. Steve gushed about the cake that he’d been given, and the man had blushed and shrugged and agreed that it was good, he was just bored of eating cake all the damn time. Steve talked about art and how he’d enjoyed the storm that had broken the sky open the night they’d met, and Man Bun smiled and said that the best storm he’d ever seen was over the Ionian Sea at midnight. He mentioned Greek gods and feeling like a Hellenic hero as he watched it, and more than ever, Steve wanted to paint the man. Wanted to catch the lightning in his eyes, and slope of his smile on a canvas so Steve could stare at all day. 

“I really gotta pee,” the man finally said with an apologetic grin once they’d consumed half the food. He tucked his chopsticks into the rubbish bag and put the lid on his dish. “Been holding it for a while now and I really don’t think that they’d like me pissing in their garden, so. I’ll be back.” 

As much as Steve hated watching the man walk away from him, he had to admit that he enjoyed the view. 

The minutes alone felt like hours, and Steve found himself sighing wistfully while idly plucking the slithers of egg out of his Pad Thai. Five minutes passed, then ten and then fifteen and Steve felt an unsettling feeling taking over the happiness in his heart. Had something happened to his date? Where was he?

“You know,” a voice said, pulling Steve out of his world of daydreams and paranoid fears. Steve struggled to hide his disappointment. Chopsticks in hand, he looked up to see one of the men of the hour glowering down at him. 

“There are people in there toasting about how great I am, yet my stupid ass is out looking for my best friend,” Sam said. He lifted a finger and did that thing with his jaw that made everyone wisely keep their mouths shut. “Who I’ve found sitting in a garden and pigging out on Thai food.” 

Steve looked up guilty and struggled to swallow the mouthful he’d been chewing. 

“I mean, I get it,” Sam said, “the food sucks. But seriously, Steve?”

“I was out here with…” Steve paused, his head tilting to the side, and his eyes going wide. “Shit! I didn’t get his name.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Heavy by Halestorm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SPl-kGZ29I) is Bucky’s ringtone because of… reasons. *shrug*
> 
> Comments and kudos feed me ~~because I tend to forget to do that myself~~


	3. M - Music, Mine, More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie; I really didn’t resonate with the words today, and the lack of contextual setting (such as Morning/Monday/Metro/Museum/Midnight etc) threw me. So, considering that I’m trying not to introduce too many of my own concepts or plot anything outside of what is given, this is just short filler so that my chapter titles don’t look like rubbish. Also, I’ve been super busy all day, so this is all I have time for. 
> 
> More over-dramatic hungover angst than fluff, but like, ya know, that’s character building and story progression for ya. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ~~Can you tell I’m 100% not in the mood??~~

Steve generally lived for the weekends. He loved his job, and he loved his lazy evenings in and the view he had over the Brooklyn brownstone skyline, but the weekdays tended to weight him down. People were exhausting, and even his generally positive demeanour needed time to recharge and refuel. 

That was where Steve’s weekends were so important. He loved the lazy mornings in and watching the sunrise from the comfort of the daybed he had squished in between bookcases and easels and stacks of old records, and that one plant that never seemed to die. Most mornings, Steve would be up and out of bed, shuffling to the kitchen with a yawn. He’d make coffee then tuck himself back in next to the picture window, intent on lazing the morning away before kickstarting a self-productive afternoon. 

This morning hadn’t been so perfect.

Like all weddings, Sam and Riley’s had started out classy and perfect and then slowly dwindled down to something completely opposite and almost disastrous. Steve blamed too many champagnes, and then too many whiskies with the happy couple as the night wore on. Generally, he wasn’t much of a drinker, but his best friend getting married was surely an occasion for celebration, and maybe more than one of the last drinks had been seeking a sense of forgetfulness. When it had become apparent that his mystery man wasn’t coming back from the bathroom – and after Sam had eaten his share of the leftovers – Steve had felt that heavy sense of forlorn longing rushing over him. 

Bus Stop Man had disappeared like a robber in the night, and Steve was entirely sure that he’d taken Steve’s stolen heart with him. 

Head blurry and eyes red, Steve had shuffled around his house, seeking his first coffee at a time well past ten. His mouth felt chalky, and the throbbing in his head reminded him of the corny music the DJ had started playing once most of the guests were plastered. The milk made him queasy, and his body cried out for something greasy. Bacon and eggs and crusty bread and salty, salty halloumi. 

Fresh air. 

Listless and wavering between fine and not-at-all-fine and feeling like he should run for the bathroom, Steve eyed his coffee suspiciously and then opted for a glass of water. He tried to turn on Spotify, choosing some mellow, Vérité beats, but that just made his head throb even more. Opening the window was good, but the sounds of Sunday morning traffic made Steve’s eye twitch. 

Finally, the need for food won out. He took what felt like a million-hour shower while hoping that the hot water would wash away his sins and sorrows and magically fix him. 

It didn’t. 

The shower did, at least, make him feel less grimy and less like stale alcohol and cheese tarts, so that was a win, and after some clean clothes and sunglasses that he knew made his head look funny, Steve felt like he was ready to face the world. At least long enough to get brunch. 

The shuffle to his favourite café was filled with hunched shoulders and a weight in his chest that shouldn’t have been there, given that a nameless man had run away with his heart just the night before. 

The food hit the spot, and while the seasoned pro of hangovers knew he’d regret it later, he couldn’t help but order more. More halloumi and another side of bacon and one of those fresh-pressed orange juices that always seemed smart but never really went with hangover belly. 

As Steve shovelled food into his mouth, he remembered smiles in the carpark lights and dark jokes about flowers and eyes that danced with mischief and temptation. He remembered the song that the man’s phone had played and the way he’d used chopsticks like a pro. Not an American hipster pro, or a sitcom person; but like someone who understood chopstick protocol and manners. Sticks held far back, as far away from the food as possible, and he hadn’t been the uncouth type to stab them into his food like a knife; Man Bun had always rested them on the side of the container like an Asian food eating saint. Clearly, he travelled. It would explain the sense of unpredictable, sexy chaos that seemed to linger around him. He’d eaten ramen in Tokyo – or at least Steve imagined – and conquered metal chopsticks in Korea and watched storms overseas filled with Greek Islands and yachts, and probably climbed mountains in counties that most people couldn’t point out on a map. 

Not for the first time, Steve wondered what the other man did for a living. How did someone that enchanting, that damn exhilaratingly beautiful and intriguingly mysterious, end up catching Steve’s bus? 

On the trudge home, Steve looked for Man Bun in the window of coffee shops and record stores. His foggy mind gave itself over to impossible ideas of summoning him with a thought. If Steve concentrated hard enough and thought _you should be mine_ enough times, then maybe the universe would make it real. His heart fluttered each time he saw a flash of similar hair, but it was never him. Too much flannel and mountain man facial hair, or hipster glasses and suspenders with cacti print that Steve could never image Bus Stop Man wearing. 

Steve searched for him on the street, on unassuming corners, and imagined what it would be like to round the block and come face to face with the stunning smile. He told himself to ask for a name. No, not just that. A number! A way to contact him so Steve could hear him talk while he painted, and allow himself to get caught up in the stories of Man Bun’s life. 

Most of all, Steve wondered what it would be like to be with him. Together. An item. A _couple_. Man Bun would be _his_ and Steve would be _his_ , and they’d shuffle to brunch on a Sunday together after watching the sunrise over those flat rooves. 

Resigned to feeling empty and queasy and kinda like he needed a nap, Steve let his feet lead the way and kept his head down. He was sick of the disappointment he felt with every person who turned out not to be his mystery man. 

Still, he couldn’t feel too horrible. After all, tomorrow was Monday, and the idea of getting to the bus stop early had never seemed so appealing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Steve tried to play during his handover [Floor - Vérité](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3i_I6JidY8). It's both MY hangover song, and remarkably on point for Steve's thoughts. 
> 
> Comments and kudos always greatly appreciated; I’ll leave room for them in my suitcase while packing!


	4. A - Admire, Art, After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and my addition: Ask. For fuck’s sake, Steve, ASK his damn name!) 
> 
> Ok. Back to the Bus Stop and back in the groove.

Mondays generally came with a sense of foreboding that drove the populace mad. Even the most adjusted of people tended to hate the first day of the week, and, statistically speaking, when it came to psychology, people were far more inclined to make daily tasks more difficult for themselves under the guise of ‘it’s Monday; of course it sucks!’

Steve wasn’t a massive fan of them himself. He didn’t moan around the water cooler and sigh into watered-down coffee like the others at his design firm, but he didn’t love the influx of client emails either. Somehow, clients were always a lot harder to deal with after the weekend, and _The Monday’s_ , as people liked to call the emotional phenomenon, tended to push needy clients towards an almost intolerable level. 

But this Monday was different. This was _the_ Monday. Steve’s Monday. _Their_ Monday! 

It was going to be the day when he’d find out more about his mystery man with the sexy hair. Steve would get a name! Get a number and, he decided as he sipped his second coffee for the morning and eyed the sketches of eyes and messy buns he’d made during the night, he’d secure a date. A proper one that didn’t involve garden beds and stolen moments and disposable chopsticks. 

Resolve firmly in place, Steve had left early and taken the stairs of his walk-up two at a time. There was a definite spring to his step as he made his way to the bus stop, and if he hadn’t stopped to help Mrs Polvaski from the building over get her door open, then Steve would have been almost alarming early. 

As Steve rounded the corner, he felt his legs stiffen, his feet turn to cement, and his brain turn to complete mush and leak out of his ears. 

_He_ was there. 

Steve felt strange. There was this odd sensation happening in his belly; like his stomach and heart and every other organ had jumped on a theme park ride that made them suddenly drop. His hands felt clammy and his mouth dry and for a moment, he was just a silly, awkward kid back in school, staring at his crush across the courtyard. He’d been too afraid to talk then, too scared to bridge that gap and try. 

When the man looked over at him and smiled, Steve felt all those vital body parts rush back up and catch in his throat, choking him up. There was no way he could let his nerves ruin this. 

“Hi,” he said eloquently while trying to approach the stunning stranger as casually as possible. 

“Hi,” the man smiled back, and Steve forgot what he was there for. Steve forget his own name; what year it was and, what’s more, he forgot why he wasn’t actually running his hands through that soft-looking hair and kissing those perfect lips. That was how he wanted to greet his mysterious Bus Stop Man; like a lover and a friend and a partner and an equal, all without any of this awkward stranger nonsense existing between them. 

“You know,” the man said, and Steve had to blink to get himself back into the present. “Some people take awkward, long and creepy silences as being, well, creepy. And awkward. And long.” 

“I’m sorry, I was just-”

“Getting lost admiring my eyes,” the man said, his lips struggling to keep a shit-stirring smirk off his face.

“I was going to say distracted,” Steve offered. “Thinking.”

The man pursed his lips and looked playfully upset. “And here I was thinking I was winning you over.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ears and goddamnit, but Steve felt his fingers twitch with the need to do that himself. “Whatcha thinking about?” 

“There was no Matt at the wedding,” Steve said suddenly. That wasn’t what he’d been planning on saying, but then, the sort of words and ideas racing through Steve’s head would have more of an adverse effect. They were fine to think, but telling a relative stranger that Steve wanted to spend the rest of his life with his hands in the man’s hair and his lips on the man’s skin were probably too much. 

He saw the way Man Bun grimaced, his face screwing up adorably as the corner of his bottom lip disappeared between his teeth. 

“Sprung,” he sulked. He looked bashful and shy and so adorable that Steve couldn’t help but smile. “Matt is like, the most common millennial name. Everyone knows at least one, so it was a safe bet to play. Everyone falls for it.” 

“So, you’re a wedding crasher!” Steve exclaimed. It was alarming how his feelings conflicted over the realisation. On one hand, this person had crashed Steve’s best friend’s wedding and wracked up part of the bar tab. On the other, there was something roguishly charming about the whole idea. It seemed to suit his mystery man to the letter and only added to the layers of excitement surrounding him. 

“Hey!” the man laughed, “It’s not like I’m Vince Vaughn. And I have a much better nose than Owen Wilson. And _technically_ ,” he stressed, “I’m a ceremony crasher because I didn’t eat, and I left before the speeches.” 

The insistence on Thai food made more sense now. Man Bun wouldn’t have had a seat at a table, and so he would have had to disappear anyway. Steve should be annoyed at the deception, but he chose to see the joy in it, and feel the warmth of knowing that the stranger hadn’t just skipped out after a glass of champagne. Bus Stop Man had risked getting caught at his own game to have dinner out of a cardboard box while sitting on a garden bed in a suit, all with him, and that made Steve’s heartbeat even faster. 

“Why did you leave?” That was the last puzzle piece that Steve couldn’t quite work out. What had driven him away after, and why he’d never come back. Was it something that Steve had said or done? Did someone catch him and shoo him out some back door that the guests hadn’t been aware of? 

“Don’t you think you have more important things to ask?” Steve could see that trademark smirk settling on the man’s face. It tended to creep on up slowly, starting with a soft stretch of his lips before settling into place in a way that made his eyes sparkle like stars. Steve felt like he already knew them so well; he’d been sketching them endlessly all weekend. 

Steve cocked his head to the side, thinking about what could be more important than finding out why such an enchanting stranger had left him alone in a garden. The object of his affection took that opportunity to step backward again, and it was only because he seemed to get taller, that Steve even realised that Man Bun was stepping up into a bus. When had that gotten there? Steve had been so busy admiring the way the other man smiled to even notice. 

“Like my name,” the man laughed while tapping his bus card against the little machine. 

A name! Yes. And a number! And a date! That had been Steve’s purpose and goal for the morning and…

“Shit!” Steve cursed as the bus door swung shut. It didn’t occur to him that, once again, his bus was pulling away without him. All his brain focused on was the idea of doors cutting the space between him and Man Bun and wheels taking that mysterious man away from him. It made him want to panic. 

Man Bun seemed to enjoy the moment too much, and Steve felt his jaw drop as he watched the man walk down the length of the bus. He threw himself into the back seat and looked back at Steve. ‘ _Tomorrow_ ,’ he mouthed through the window, his fingers wiggling in a purely devilish wave. Steve was pretty sure that he would have run down the street and plastered himself to the glass if it wasn’t considered so socially unacceptable. 

“Why?” Steve sighed as he threw himself on the empty bench of the bus stop. “Why are you so useless?”

That was the second time Steve had missed his bus over this guy, and the third time he’d let him walk away without a name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, I’m moving to Athens via a night in Corfu tomorrow, so while there’s a good chance that I’ll end up in the hotel due to the horrendous weather forecast for tomorrow night, there is an equally good chance that I won’t get anything written. Basically, I’m probably going to be a day behind the actual prompt days for N, C and E. 😊 
> 
> And because we have a song with each chapter, [Addicted to You – Avicii](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qc9c12q3mrc) So fitting ~~and still one of the greatest musical losses~~
> 
> Comments and kudos always greatly appreciated; they’ll keep me company on my rainy sea voyage.


	5. N - Nuzzle, Night, Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER SHORT chapter as I try to catch up. Also, despite how much I loved today's words, they didn't really fit with another bus stop meeting, so have some inner reflective Steve. Which, really, it worked out well as I could keep it short and just get it done.

Steve was sure that this night would never end. 

The day had been long enough. Torturously so. He'd started to become a pro at missing his bus but still managing to make it to work on time, so thankfully no explanations were needed for stumbling through the door late. 

But then the hours followed. Steve always prided himself on his professionalism. Steve threw himself into his work, giving it his all while casting distractions from his mind. It was an essential step in understanding and concentrating on the needs of his clients. 

Friday had been hellish enough. After that first meeting and that devastating smile, Steve had struggled to keep his mind in the game all day. He kept summing up visions of dark hair, and playful glances and his hand kept straying to the cake box that he'd kept long after he'd devoured the inside. At the time, Steve had thought it was the most terrible of tortures; to have finally made contact and yet to still be so far away. 

Then Saturday and Sam's wedding had happened, and then Monday morning had rolled around, and Steve was a starved man. He had so many scraps and fragments of his mystery man to live on, but not the real substance he'd needed. 

Even now, as he watched his alarm clock tick past midnight, he felt like he was slowly dying. If only he hadn't been such a dork and had managed to get the man's name. Or his number! That would have been nice. Steve would have called him already – seeming too eager wasn't something that Steve wanted to worry about – and they might have already had dinner together. Real dinner. Or maybe his nameless fate would have been busy, but they would have chatted, and Steve would have heard his laugh, and they would have set a time, and a date and Steve would have seemed like a functional, normal man. Not some idiot who kept screwing things up and getting left alone at a bus stop. 

Steve groaned and hugged his pillow closer, pressing his face against it. 

He wondered what it would be like to have Bus Stop Man in his bed and to be nuzzling at him instead of some inanimate object. How would he smell? And what side of the bed would he pick? Steve would let him choose; he didn't have a preference, and while Steve was determined to be a gentleman, if he ever got his wits about him and had Man Bun in his bed, he didn't really think they'd be sticking to sides all that much. 

Steve wanted to run his fingers through that hair, and kiss along that perfect jaw. He ached to trace Bus Stop Man's back and hold him close. To feel those muscles move, and his skin prickle as Steve drew patterns on his sides and drew lazy but enticing circles up his thighs. Steve wanted to bury his face into Bus Stop Man's neck and breath him in, nibble on skin and kiss _everywhere_. He wanted to make the man moan and writhe and fall apart in the most pleasurable of ways. 

Shoving at his pillow in irritation – it wasn't its fault that it couldn't be a proper substitute to what Steve really craved – Steve clambered out of bed and headed for the shower. His feet took him past sketches and easels, each alluding to mischievous eyes and soft curls of hair. Trying not to look at them, Steve blasted the water cold, stripped down and hopped in. 

It was horrible and freezing, but it helped to settle his mind, and ease the baser desires running rampant through his mind.

Tomorrow, his mystery man had promised, and Steve found himself making his own vow. Tomorrow would be the day. No getting distracted. No letting this man dance away from him with a smirk. Name first, number next, and then and only then, were they to engage in any form of conversation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're a few days off schedule now, but life happened and it was hard, and honestly, if you've never paid a random stranger to drive you across a border in a beat-up old van with a wobbly tyre, can you even say that you've been to Albania??? 
> 
> I'm going to try and tackle yesterday's words, and today's words tomorrow and finish this off. 
> 
> Legit didn’t have a song for this chapter (so weird for me to write without music, but I’m feeling pretty weird right now) but this one did come to mind: [Hands on You - Ashley Monroe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2SSa8wS_nk)


	6. C – Cutie, Chocolate, Cupid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! Cupid was hard to fit in, but I did manage to reference it once.

Today was the day! Steve was set to his task, his mind focused on a logical flow of events, and he was determined to have things go his way. 

He knew that he’d be stunned silent when faced with his mystery man. It was a regular occurrence and something that Steve was sure he was just going to have to learn to live with. There was no getting around the way that he momentarily couldn’t breathe when looking at the other man, or the way his heart raced dangerously fast. 

Sleep hadn’t come easy to Steve that night, even after his cold shower, and he felt a little worse for wear because of it. 

Still, he’d bounced out of the house, and, on a whim, gone to the coffee shop across the street. He didn’t know what his mysterious stranger would like, but a cappuccino seemed to be a safe bet. He placed his order, adding two breakfast sandwiches, as well as a little collection of homemade chocolates that he could offer as a gift. After all, Steve’s mystery man had already fed him cake and Thai; it was only appropriate that Steve start wooing him back. 

The chocolates had a gift tag secured with a red ribbon, and as Steve waited for his breakfast order, he doodled on the back of it. It wasn’t like he could address properly given the lack of names exchanged, so he sketched a little scene of a cherub with a bow and arrow. It was corny, but Steve’s mind was in the clouds and filled with grand romantic gestures. 

With the coffees and sandwiches balanced on a takeaway tray, Steve made it to the bus stop with a little time to spare. He would have been freakishly early if he hadn’t stopped, but now Steve was worried that he was pushing his luck with time. 

Man Bun was already there, and as Steve rounded the corner, their eyes met, and Steve felt his face flush. Had Man Bun been looking for him? It certainly seemed like it, and Steve practically preened at the idea. 

“Good morning,” the man said as Steve joined him over near the garden bed behind the shelter. Steve was sure that he’d never get tired of hearing that voice, especially not first thing in the morning. He wondered what it would be like to wake up to that, and that brilliant smile and the mental image of Man Bun grinned at him from the other side of Steve’s bed almost made him drop his breakfast offering. 

_Focus, Steve, focus_ , he reminded him. He managed to get the food and coffees perched on the edge of the wall before pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

“Name,” Steve instructed while pushing his phone into Man Bun’s face. “Number. Schedule?” 

It came out a little more monosyllabic than he had intended, but it was important that Steve keep his head in the game and not get distracted by that stunning smile. He’s fallen prey to that before, and he was determined to collect the needed details before the bus showed up and ruined everything. 

“I’m sorry,” the man said, his head cocked to the side and a slight frown settling over his stunning eyes. Steve panicked. Had he read the situation wrong? Was all the flirting and tension little more than a fantasy contrived in his own head? 

“I don’t date Neanderthals. Conversation is a big part of my relationship requirements.” 

It took Steve a moment – he blamed that dazzling smile mixed with his tired mind – but when he finally saw the joke for what it was, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. 

“Sorry but you do this thing where you laugh and you smile and you confuse and stun me and then you walk away and I end up stuck here and waiting for another day to pass before I can even get your name so I’ve gotta be really regimented about this.” 

“Who taught you to verbally punctuate?” Bus Stop Man laughed again. “I really thought you’d be a little smoother,” he said with a roll of his eyes. He did, however, take the phone. Steve almost died when their fingers brushed against each other in the process. “You know. Whatever happened to romance and sweeping a guy off his feet?” the man continued. “I mean, if I wanted things abruptly shoved in my face, I’d be on Grindr.” 

There was something to take away from that mini tirade, Steve was sure of it, but he was too focused on the way long fingers gracefully flew over the surface of his phone screen, inputting the information that Steve had desired for so long. Steve watched as his mystery man hit the Call button on Steve’s phone, and only handed it back when his own phone blasted that rock tune from his pocket. 

Steve looked down at the screen with a thankful sigh. That was it, right there! The man’s name and number. It was even confirmed by the way this man – this _Bucky_ – had called himself after entering his details. 

“Bucky,” Steve said slowly. As cute as it was, it still made him wonder if this was another layer of mystery the man was creating. What sort of a name was Bucky, anyway?

“James, actually,” the man said with a slight shrug. “But _Bucky_ has been my nickname ever since I was a kid.” 

“It’s cute,” Steve sighed, and yeah, maybe he was a little mooneyed over the whole thing, but Bucky really did sound like some cutie-pie sort of nickname. Steve liked it instantly. 

Man Bun – Bucky – was screwing his face up at being called cute, which made him even more adorable. For his part, Steve went back to staring; at his phone, at Bucky, at the way the man smiled and quirked an eyebrow in a way that clearly showed he was expecting something. 

“Well?”

“Well?” Steve repeated. 

Bucky laughed out loud and shook his head. “You really are bad at this!” he explained. “You still haven’t told me your name-”

“Steve!” Steve said quickly, blushing at how eagerly the word had rolled off his tongue. 

“And you had three things, Steve,” Bucky finished. 

Three things? Steve frowned slightly as he tried to work out what Bucky was talking about. Three things? He’d needed Bucky’s name, and his number and, “Oh! When can I take you out?” he asked. “Properly. Dinner not in a garden.” 

“I’m free tonight,” Bucky replied, and Steve loved that he noticed a sense of urgency in the other’s voice as well. It gave him hope that he wasn’t the only one falling so hard and so fast. 

“Tonight it is, then!” Steve confirmed. He felt like he was soaring; floating even. “In the meantime,” Steve reached for the coffee and breakfast sandwich, holding them out towards Bucky with a hopeful grin. “Breakfast?”

Bucky grinned again, his eyes sweeping over the offering appraisingly. “Famished,” he said, taking a seat on the low wall. Steve did the same, and for the first time in days, he didn’t even notice the bus that came and went without him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, he finally did it! Finally managed to get a name. And a date! I’m proud of Steve. 
> 
> Only one chapter to go! I’m going to try my best to get it done tonight/tomorrow, but tomorrow is my birthday, so I may end up yet another day late. We’ll just have to see. 
> 
> [Counting Stars - One Republic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yim4--J44gk)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments fuel me!


	7. E – Eternity, Europe, Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These words were totally the easiest of the whole challenge. I’d figured that ‘Eternity’ would be one from the very start, and escape and Europe are basically words that describe my life right now. So maybe there’s a little touch of me thrown into the setting of this final chapter.

_Eleven months later…_

Bucky wasn’t a morning person. 

Steve had discovered that very early on in their relationship. After a respectable amount of old-school courtship and getting to know each other, Steve had finally discovered that Bucky liked the left side of the bed. Though, just as Steve had imagined, they didn’t really stick to sides all that much. 

That following morning, he’d also finally been able to witness Bucky with his hair down and splayed out across Steve’s pillow, and that sleepy smile that was more pout than anything. 

Getting to know each other had been one of the best experiences of Steve’s life. 

Bucky was a chef, which was both a delight to discover and a treat for Steve’s tastebuds. Steve could hold his own in the kitchen, and he was by no means a cooking train wreck, but the things that Bucky could do with the random ingredients scattered through Steve’s pantry and fridge were borderline diabolical. 

That had also explained another of the great mysteries around Bucky. While it was still a long-running joke that Bucky had crashed Sam and Riley’s wedding – and Sam was still salty about Steve’s disappearance, while Riley was more pissed that they hadn’t ordered Thai for him – Bucky had admitted that crashing weddings weren’t a regular occurrence for him. He’d been there for a late afternoon job interview, hence the suit, and he’d spotted Steve. Honestly, hearing Bucky describe that moment had turned Steve’s heart and brain to mush. Knowing that Bucky had risked sneaking into a wedding at the venue he’d been applying for just to see him was quite possibly the most romantic gesture Steve had ever heard of. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten the job, but that was their loss. Steve’s boyfriend was destined for bigger and better things than being a chef at a snobbish wedding venue. 

Bucky liked cats and lazy days and had a jumper that was more threadbare holes than anything else. He loved ice cream and action flicks and had some of the most eclectic taste in music Steve had ever seen. Other than his skills in the kitchen, Bucky had absolutely no artistic talents at all. His handwriting was messy to hide the fact that spelling wasn’t his strong point, yet he could speak and read Russian and a little Japanese and calculate things in his head that had Steve reaching for a calculator. 

He was contrasts and parallels, each new fact somehow adding to his charm and marking him as stunningly unique. 

Four months in, they had their first fight. 

Bucky had a tempter and a tendency to let his words run away with him; Steve was stubborn and struggled to see past his own ideals and convictions. They’d clashed hard and loud, the catalyst now long forgotten, but the reverberations and feelings impossible not to remember. 

Steve remembered being furious and being hurt and feeling like his heart was breaking. He remembered the tears in Bucky’s eyes and the way he’d articulated his argument with his arms, knocking a glass over in the process. Slammed doors and fingers pressed into eyes and agonising hours spent wondering; it had been horrible. 

But Bucky had come back, and Steve had wanted to rush and apologise and tell him that everything was alright. But it wasn’t. They had needed to talk, and they’d needed to work things out, and so they did. The sat and had midnight coffee and stuttered their way through thoughts and feelings and differences in opinions, and only when they’d reclaimed common ground did Steve allow himself to hold Bucky close and lead him to bed. 

It was fast and sudden and scary, but it was that moment when Steve knew he was in love. Not puppy love and stalkerish infatuation. Not lust and this was way more than a crush. But _real_ love. Adult love. The type where Steve didn’t want to be perfect for Bucky, and he didn’t want Bucky to struggle to be perfect for him. It was about complimenting each other; two sides of a coin; fitting together despite differences and accepting each other’s flaws.

Companionable souls who occasionally clashed and occasionally fought, but who loved each other so much that they’d always come back together and talk things through. Nothing in life was perfect, and no one ever could be, but they could be amazing for each other, fantastic together and still wonderful while separate. 

There was no stronger version of love than that, and it was the sort that stretched on for eternity. 

And so, eight months after they’d met and when Bucky had received an offer to further his culinary skills at an exclusive school in Rome, it had been a no-brainer. 

Steve had never said yes so fast in his life. 

The elation of quitting his job and packing his life up had Steve grinning from dawn to dusk. Of course, the reality of the situation was a little harder and involved a lot more preparation and paperwork, and, of course, they’d clashed and cracked a few times under the stress of it all. But they’d always come back together. There was no childish sulking on the couch or shutting each other out. Midnight coffee and adult communication, and tired mornings spent on reverent touches and simply looking at each other; that was their recipe for avoiding relationship disaster. 

Ten months after that rainy day at a Brooklyn bus stop, they moved to Rome. 

It was their great escape. Or at least it was for Steve. Bucky was off to school, and Steve had never been more frightened and lost in his life. But they got through it together. After the obligation freak out over leaving a stable job and moving overseas, Steve started to see it for the opportunity that it was. Slowly, he began to build his empire. After all, an artist could work anywhere, especially in this digital age, and if he happened to pilfer a few old of his old clients from his previous job, then that was just life. It didn’t take him long to push his freelance business to the point of having a waiting list for potential clients. 

Steve worked mostly from home, but he’d sit and sketch in cafes near the Spanish Steps and meet Bucky for Gelato in front of the Pantheon before riding the bus home together. They practised their Italian through fits of laughter, and while Steve struggled, Bucky proved to be a natural. He even had the animated hand gestures to match. 

While Steve knew that nothing in life was perfect, it was sometimes hard to remember that. Because this? Bucky sleepy and looking confused in the hazy light of an Italian morning was pretty damn close. 

Steve smiled as he put the coffee mugs on the bedside table and perched on the edge of the mattress. He almost poked Bucky in the eye when he reached out to trace the line of his cheek; Bucky had instantly curled closer to Steve’s thigh, setting Steve’s hand-eye coordination off. 

“Good morning,” Steve said gently. He finally managed to get his hand in that soft hair and brushed it aside. Bucky’s arm curled around Steve’s thigh, holding it like a living teddy. 

“Morning,” Bucky grumbled, his other hand rubbing his eyes as he struggled to wake up. 

Bucky wasn’t a morning person, and Steve loved him all the more for it. He was adorable when he struggled to get himself started, and when he pouted and curled up further under the covers. It was endlessly cute when he stumbled around and stubbed his toe while looking for coffee, or the way he swayed back and forth down the hall on the way to the shower. 

“Is’t coffee?” Bucky slurred, his nose twitching noticeably as he sniffed the air. 

Steve laughed and bought the mug over. “Don’t spill it,” Steve warned. 

Bucky sat up awkwardly with a roll of his eyes. “That was one time.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “Yesterday.” Their usual blanket was still drying, and Steve was sure they’d never be rid of the stain. 

Bucky treated the situation with the respect it deserved; he poked his tongue out before taking a sip and almost spat it out. “It’s hot,” he whined. 

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes, but the grin on his face couldn’t be stopped. “It’s lucky I love you,” he murmured while reaching for his own mug. 

“I love you _too_ ,” Bucky crooned, clearly starting to wake up; it was evident by the way his usual roguish charm began to kick in. 

Steve chuckled and sat back against the headboard, content to watch the sun filter in through the windows next to his partner.

To think that a bus stop and an umbrella in the rain had led him here was truly amazing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I honestly can’t believe that I made it! I’ve never really done any of these sorts of challenges before, so that was a first, and I’m really not big on fluff either, so that was also a first! I’m really glad that I did it the way I did as well. It was a lot of fun to have to just… wing it and make things up on the spot and not plan ahead. 
> 
> [3 Words - Cheryl Cole ft Will.I.Am](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iA23b4Dptas)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments fuel me and shall be used as birthday presents for me!


End file.
